Slancha Ireland...
pale skinof the kind rarely seen
by the man
who never leaves his pint of guinness
in a random dublin township
eyes focused
on every last drop
to drown the tears
of the woman he cant forget
and the long trod home
the empty sound
of his coat hitting air
and the light she took
from his laughter
cold
bereft...demons left
to run like rampant fires lit
so many times
so many admissions
so boring, to die in this old ireland
no magic wand is greater
than the remembrance of a lovers sin
that last moment
when shes leashing her wantonness
her thoughts astray
like so many dogs and harlots
that young man
losing himself in the warm empty embrace
of loveless whores and emptiness
the long walk home
clad in darkness
taller than his woes
but half as priceless
waiting for his flashing eyed beauty
a return to unity
a morning after disgrace
in a less public place
with a grin on his face
but he knows its for shit
so he can only order a fifth
and drown himself in it
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